


two slow dancers, last ones out

by loghainmactir



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Songfic, aaaa anyway does this count as songfic? Whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 00:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19414795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loghainmactir/pseuds/loghainmactir
Summary: Angels don’t dance. This is known.Well— ok, correction: one angel once danced one very specific dance. Not that he was very good at it, and not that that stopped him from having fun in the slightest.But, for the most part, angels did not— would not— could not?— dance.Demons were another story all together, but that wasn’t anything new, now was it?





	two slow dancers, last ones out

Angels don’t dance. This is known.

Well— ok, correction: one angel once danced one very _specific_ dance. Not that he was very good at it, and not that that stopped him from having fun in the slightest.

But, for the most part, angels did not— would not— could not?— dance.

Demons were another story all together, but that wasn’t anything new, now was it?

This all, of course, is relevant to where we begin today: Soho, London, the cancellation of Armageddon far behind them. It’s about to hit 3.40pm, and an angel sits in his warm antique “bookstore” (for it isn’t really a _bookstore_ — it’s more apt to call it a place to store books), watching a demon flit between a box of old records and his gramophone.

Aziraphale, our aforementioned angel who has only ever danced one very specific dance, sits upon one of the many padded armchairs with a steaming mug of cocoa in his hands. He’s perched so as to see the entirety of the demon’s route across his shop, tall towers of books looming over him.

He looks positively cosy, especially considering the state of affairs outside: it is cold, grey and miserable, and Aziraphale is glad it’s one of the numerous days the shop is closed. Instead of huddling into the building for warmth and comfort and books, humans trudge past his windows with scowls and umbrellas extended, shielding them from the drizzling rain. He imagines the mud on his floorboards and rugs and he shudders.

The demon, Crowley, frisbees another record into the ever-growing pile by his side and grunts with dissatisfaction. He’s about half-way through Aziraphale’s collection, and everything he’s encountered so far hasn’t clicked.

_Frank Sinatra. Billy Holliday. Nat King Cole—_

“Are you quite alright, Crowley?”

The cacophony of stop-start music and records crashing into the pile stops and two yellow snake eyes snap to him. He’s not wearing his glasses. Not today. “What did you say?”

“I _said_ ,” Aziraphale sucks in a deep breath, “Are you _quite_ alright? You’re making a mess of my shop.”

Crowley sways away from the gramophone, record in hands, eyebrows arched. He gives the main floor of the bookstore a critical once-over: “Isn’t it already chaotic, though? Why’s it matter? I’m trying to find something here.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows, severely unimpressed. “It’s controlled chaos,” The angel argues. “But that’s rather beside the point— you’re going to break one of my records handling them like that.”

“Sorry.” He slips the record back into its jacket and gently places it on top of the mound: he cracks an apologetic grin at him. “You gotta organise this all a little better, Angel. How’s a guy gonna find anything when you’ve got ‘em all mashed up like this?”

“… To be fair, it _is_ a book store, not a record store.” He sniffs, going quiet. It’s hardly his fault. His record ‘collection’ is confined to two wooden boxes— and that’s about it. 

Crowley twists away from him to continue his assault on the box of vinyls— Aziraphale watches him, but it’s hardly necessary. The demon is no longer throwing them about like they’re paper aeroplanes, and that’s a relief.

Only relief has a short lifespan, for Anthony J. Crowley barks an “Ah!”, and the needle drops— the gramophone crackles to life with soft sound of acoustic guitar, violins dancing behind it.

There’s a sweet twinkling of piano, a man crooning— _who do you know in heaven…?_ — and then the demon is in front of him before he can even blink, flourishing dramatically. 

“C’mon. Let me tempt you to a _dance_ , Angel.” He drawls. His eyebrows wiggle, hand outstretched. Aziraphale struggles to keep the blush from his cheeks: his ears catch the words— _where did you get those good looks? Those eyes that glow like a star?_ — and his heart leaps into his throat.

“I can’t.” It’s such a weak, half-hearted protest. “No. No, no— no! No. We can’t. I can’t. I— _angels don’t dance_.”

Is it that? Yes, it’s that. It’s definitely not that it’s Crowley standing there, offering his hand, and—

“Psh. _Can’t_. Bullshit. Come on—“ His mug is _gone_ , banished by Crowley’s own twisted version of a miracle. And then Aziraphale’s being tugged up to his feet, pulled gently around the room while the man in the gramophone sings about his lover’s smile and Paradise.

Aziraphale can’t recall if he ever actually had this record before today. _God_ , his whole face feels hotter than the sun.

Naturally, Crowley’s arm curls around his waist, their hands fitting together as if it’s a part of the Plan, something perfect and right. They keep stepping on each-other’s toes, their timing is terrible and they’re far closer to each-other than they’re meant to be.

Nevertheless, Aziraphale finds himself melting into his arms. “You did this on purpose.” He says, trying very hard to sound like he disapproves of it all.

“I did.”

“You’re a terrible, horrible demon. I don’t know why I even let you into my shop.”

There’s a broad, pleased grin plastered on Crowley’s face. “Ah, you love it. Don’t lie, Angel.”

The tips of his ears are pink, he can _feel_ it. He can’t exactly argue the point— it’s been so long he’s forgotten how nice it is to dance, even if they’re bumping into side-tables and knocking over small piles of books. He’ll fix it later.

Only… later comes and goes. Yet they’re still there, and it’s hard to tear their eyes away from one another. The toe-crushing has lessened (though not by much), and so has Aziraphale’s blush (… though not by much), and they’re both more than content to stay like this, wrapped up in one another.

“Crowley.”

“Yes, Aziraphale?”

“The music has stopped.”

He casts a glance to the gramophone. “So it has.”

But that’s not the point. It never really was. They decide, then, that it doesn’t really matter what either Heaven or Hell thinks; perhaps it never _really_ did. 

What matters for now is that it’s just _them_ : just Crowley and Aziraphale, the pattering of London rain against the windows of the bookstore, and nothing more.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m posting this from a bus my phone and i’m utterly tired of looking at this mess so have at it completely unedited, lmfao. i wanted to write it a little differently, maybe give it a bit more ‘meat’, but to be honest writing crowley and aziraphale was hard, especially trying to partially keep the tone of the show.
> 
> but i hope y’all enjoyed it, maybe i’ll get around to writing more of these two one day. feel free to leave kudos & comments, thank you for reading!!
> 
> (extra note: i feel like mitski’s two slow dancers is apt for them, but i don’t think az would LISTEN to much modern music, you know? he’s old. please leave him alone, lmao.)


End file.
